Laughing At Shadows
by SilverKitsune1
Summary: Ianto acts as butler for Gotham’s mad clown. Crossover with Dark Knight Ianto/Joker, Ianto/Jack.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Laughing At Shadows**

**Author: Silverkitsune1**

**Summary: Ianto acts as butler for Gotham's mad clown.**

**Rating: PG-13 **

**Disclaimer: I own neither Torchwood or Batman. **

**Warnings: Ianto/Joker. Crossover with Dark Knight. Spoilers for movie and all through most all of Torchwood.**

**Author's Note: Thank you to lj users Madtheo and samcandoit for their wonderful betas. **

**Chapter One / ?**

There are days when Joker refuses to let Ianto work. Ripping the files he's just finished sorting (by purchasing date, and then alphabetized by last name, all color coded, of course) out of his grip and setting them on fire. Sometimes he shoves the Welshman away from the crates of dynamite he dusts, all the while mumbling darkly, perhaps to himself, or perhaps to Ianto, about dogs and cars or bats and rifts. These interruptions remind Ianto of someone else, but he can never remember who.

Joker likes to rub his thumbs up the sides of Ianto's face once he's got his full attention, fingernails nipping the edges of his mouth before they trace upward in a smile that Ianto won't make. The rest of Joker's lose fingers will wiggle and twitch as though offended that one of their own has grown so still; insulted that a digit is in the place where a finely sharpened knife should be. Ianto always stills under his touch, but not in the way of a rabbit caught by the fox, heart thrumming at a pace so fast it must be painful. There's a fondness to his pauses, more indulgence and patience than his boss usually tolerates. Ianto wonders if there's something this man likes about his calm. The eye of the hurricane that makes the storms he brings down that much more violent.

"Do you want to know how I got these scars?" he'll always ask.

But Ianto never hears the story. The question is never followed by a fanciful tale, which in turn is never followed by a knife dipping into the thumbnail's imprint.

Instead he'll get a playful smack to the cheek or a hard bruising kiss, and the Joker will wrap an arm around his waist, leading him into the darker parts of the building.

"What are your thoughts on kids? I hate kids. I think there should be more of them."

Tonight Ianto waits on the edge of the pier while the Joker sets their warehouse on fire; three priceless works of art, 5 million dollars and exactly 103 helium balloons of various colors going up with the wood, nails and copper tubing. Ianto shoves his chilling hands deep into the pocketfs of his black pinstripe suit. He spares a moment of thought on the piles of green paper he'd meticulously organized across the cracked cement floor, each bundle holding exactly 23 and set at a perfect right angle.

When the Joker stalks back, he looks at Ianto appraisingly, knife flashing like quicksilver in his palm as he flips it from handle to blade. One incorrect catch will leave a finger in the dust, and what a laugh that would drag out of the other man. He shoves Ianto hard as he passes, and unprepared, the younger man pinwheels, beginning his fall through the air and into infinity.

A hand snakes out to snag his tie, his free fall halted in suspended animation, feet scrabbling on the wood as his body seems to float above the obsidian swells beneath the dock. The salvational silk is so dark green in color that it looks black even in the light, and therefore has no chance here under the night-time sky. Joker holds him there, and his tongue darts out to moisten his chops like a hound after a heavy meal.

Ianto stares curiously into the Joker's eyes. The heavy liner makes him feel as though he's being dragged into fathomless vacuity, and the cold seeps through the thin material of his suit coat like winter's chill.

"You know what I like the most about you?" the Joker asks. "The accent. Not a lot of accents around here. Variety is the spice of life."

A hard pull and Ianto stumbles forward, his center of balance thrown in the opposite direction of the lapping, polluted waters. The Joker spins them both around giving Ianto a clear view of the fire painted building one foot lightly pressing over Ianto's black dress shoes no doubt scuffing them. There's a crash from inside the warehouse, along with the sound of screaming metal, but Ianto's attention is dragged away from the flickering firelight when his tie is pulled taught, and a streak of silver splits it in two.

Ianto tilts his head, and smoothes a hand down the front of his dress shirt. "The authorities will be here soon, sir."

The Joker grins. "I'm in the mood for some high conversation. We're all dressed up, but have no place to go. What's say we find one?"

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: Laughing At Shadows**

**Author: Silverkitsune1**

**Summary: Ianto acts as butler for Gotham's mad clown.**

**Rating: PG-13 **

**Disclaimer: I own neither Torchwood or Batman. **

**Warnings: Ianto/Joker. Crossover with Dark Knight. Spoilers for movie and all through most all of Torchwood.**

**Author's Note: Thank you to lj users Madtheo and samcandoit for their wonderful betas. **

**Chapter Two**

The restaurant, _La Route de Lune_, is a posh little place located on the twenty-seventh floor of a tall high rise in downtown Gotham. The glow from the chandeliers bounces off the delicate crystal glasses and makes the faces of Gotham's young and wealthy pulse and shine with light.

A young Asian woman in her twenties, her long black hair pinned and curled high, coaxes melodies out of the harp that's nestled in-between her legs. She is so focused on the vibrating strings that she is the last to notice them getting off the elevator. The music stops, and as the last sweet note resonates through Ianto's mind, he finds himself wishing the Joker demand she provide a score to whatever act of chaos he has simmering in the depth of his imagination.

"I decided to take a walk on the wild side," the Joker announces in a voice that thunders in the silent room. "See how the better half lives. I've even got my very own butler. I'm not really sure if it's acceptable for him to be here, but give me a break. I'm new money, and I don't know all the rules yet."

Out of the corner of his eye, Ianto can see the shapes of the new crew darting between the tables like shadows. Their darkness obstructs the soft yellow lighting of this crystal palace in the sky, and swallows the healthy glow that used to fill the room. Ianto folds his hands behind his back as jewelry is torn from women's necks and pointed pistols demand wallets and cufflinks from the men. One woman screams as the clasp of her necklace snaps, her pearls scattering across the white linen table cloth and the plush green carpet. She sobs quietly into the shoulder of the steely-eyed woman next to her as Joker's men work quickly to gather the rolling treasures. To Ianto, it's nothing but background noise. His gaze is elsewhere.

"Bruce Wayne!"

The Joker beams with delight as he pulls a chair up to the table where a young man, whose eyes hold fire, sits. Ianto is a silent shadow as he moves to stand next to his boss. Wayne's gaze flickers to him, and Ianto suppresses the urge to shiver.

"I have to say, this is a little unexpected," the mad clown says. "But it's an honor. Really. It's not often I get to rub elbows with one of Gotham's most spoiled children. I like spoiled children, Bruce. They play the best games. Oh, do you mind if I-?"

Leaning across the table, the Joker stabs the steak off the young master's plate. Slapping the meat onto the white tablecloth he begins to hack the meat into bite-sized pieces.

"Man-to-man, Bruce," the Joker says, his tongue sneaking out of the side of his mouth to lap at a trickle of juice. "Let me in on it. What do you do with the little people in your life?"

His head tilts in Ianto's direction.

"Is there a kitchen I'm supposed to send him off to? Laundry he's supposed to be picking up? Hookers he's supposed to be burying? I'm a simple guy, Bruce." Unbuttoning his jacket, the Joker gestures at the purple shirt underneath. "I've only got the one suit."

Wayne opens his mouth to answer, but the young woman next to him, her body so thin and small that Ianto believes one strong thought could snap her in twain, grips the millionaire's forearm tightly. "Bruce!"

Her head whips toward Wayne as she speaks a hairsbreadth behind the word. The diamonds in her earrings glitter like the stars in Orion's belt.

Joker doesn't wait for an answer, and when he throws himself out of the chair Ianto follows. The madman prowls through the room, eyes darting in all directions, his tongue licking his chops like a rabid dog. When he finally pauses, he reaches an arm back and snakes it around Ianto's waist to draw him in close.

A pedestal made of green marble sits in the very center of the restaurant, and Ianto wouldn't have been surprised if all the tables had been synchronized around it for the occasion. He is dimly aware that it was something he would have done.

"Honey, you know I'm horrible at this sort of thing," the Joker says, nudging his nose against Ianto's cheek. He smells like grease, and sweat, and stale winter clothing freed from dank closets after a long summer. "Tell me what you think."

The painting is small, about as long as his forearm and wide as the palm of his hand when laid sideways. On the canvas, a young black woman stands atop a skyscraper and stretches her hands toward a star-filled sky. The crescent moon lays on its side in her right hand, a burning green star is clutched in the left. A watch on a long chain hangs around her neck, and Ianto stares at the image, the watercolors running together only to dance apart a stroke later.

"I'm sure I wouldn't know, sir."

Joker slips his coat off, handing Ianto the garment, and a pang of unease churns though Ianto's guts. The Joker's coat never feels anything but wrong in Ianto's hands; it's too light, too shabby, and the fabric is too rough under the pads of his fingers. But when he stretches for a linking thread to connect all these bits of feeling together the whole pattern unravels and he is left with nothing.

Joker circles the painting, one hand rubbing his jaw and smearing the grease paint Ianto had so carefully painted across his cheeks in the elevator.

"I'll take that to go," Joker finally says over his shoulder. "Do you think you can make the bag look like a swan?"

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: Laughing At Shadows (3/?)

**Author**: Silverkitsune1

**Summary**: Ianto acts as butler for Gotham's mad clown.

**Rating**: PG-13

**Disclaimer**: I own neither Torchwood or Batman.

**Warnings**: Ianto/Joker. Crossover with Dark Knight. Spoilers for movie, and through first two seasons of Torchwood. Eventual Ianto/Jack.

**Author's** **Note**: Thank you to lj users Madtheo and samcandoit for their wonderful betas.

**Chapter 3**

The SUV is crowded; three of the Joker's people are crammed into the front seat sitting shoulder-bone to shoulder-bone. The woman behind the wheel weaves them in and out of traffic, taking hard turns that tilt the vehicle and make Ianto wonder if gravity will pull them the rest of the way over. She rests one trembling hand on the wheel and stretches her head out the window to whoop at the sky, which sends the rest of the mad crew into hyena like cries. Rain clouds have invaded what was recently a clear sky, and the driver shakes her wet, black hair like a dog when she pulls herself back in.

There's another man, whip thin and glassy eyed, sharing the back seat with Ianto and the Joker, the painting cradled in his bone white hands. His skin is practically translucent and spidery blue veins run up his hands to disappear under his sleeves. Ianto isn't close enough to see the rise and fall of the man's chest, and he has a momentary bout of suspicion that they might actually be sharing the seat with a corpse, the bosses' idea of a wonderful joke. That he doesn't bat an eye when the Joker pushes Ianto across the back seat, Ianto's polished black shoes landing in the thin man's lap as the Joker straddles his hips, does nothing to help the Welshman dislodge the thought.

The kisses are wet and messy. Ianto once thought the Joker would taste like bitter almonds or stagnant water, gun smoke perhaps with a sharp spice of madness to give the kiss flavor, but the Joker tastes like nothing so fantastic. Only spit and skin, sweat and breath like any other man. Because that's all he is at the end of the day: a madman, yes, but still a man.

Ianto lifts his hips to grind against the body above, and the clown sucks his way up the Welshman's neck. Ianto spares a thought for the red grease paint lining the Joker's lips, no doubt staining his skin like on those rare occasions when Lisa wore lipstick. The familiar name bounces through the young man's mind, and a knell of grief resonates through his entire body, but no slides of memory flicker by in accompaniment to the emotion. Ianto grabs the Joker's hair and tugs hard as the man's tongue darts into his mouth.

Hands find their way to his belt buckle, and Ianto has undone the top button of the Joker's green vest when something collides violently with them. Ianto's head cracks against the door as the van skids across the lanes, and with one last sharp twist, comes to a standstill amidst flashing headlights and blaring horns.

The Joker chuckles into Ianto's ear. His teeth sink into the soft cartilage, and Ianto gasps as blood is drawn.

The front seat empties quickly, the rest of the crew tumbling onto the wet pavement. Joker drops his head into the hollow of Ianto's throat and sighs. He reaches blindly for the door handle and then climbs over Ianto and out of the car.

"Work, work, work," Joker mutters.

Ianto spares a moment to buckle his belt and smooth a hand down the front of his dress shirt, his fingers parting to follow the smooth path made by the ruined tie. The quiet man with the painting is slumped forward, and blood trickles from a gash on his forehead. Ianto unclenches the painting from his grasp, tucks it under his shirt, and pulls his pistol out before following his boss into the rain.

A bolt of lightning flickers between the high towers of steel and glass that surround them. The flash illuminates the crash site as Ianto strolls across the wet pavement, and for a moment he clearly sees the small, beat up brown station wagon with its front bumper buried in the side of the SUV. The light is gone before he can see if the driver is alive, but the unmoving shadow behind the wheel leads him to doubt it.

Raindrops slide down the back of Ianto's jacket and soak through his pants, the water chilling his skin. He keeps his back straight and his head up. "It's a lost cause. The warranty expired yesterday, sir."

Joker cocks an eyebrow at him. "Didn't I steal this, like, an hour ago?"

Ianto shrugs. "The paper work was in the glove compartment, and I took the liberty of familiarizing myself with it during one of my free moments."

The Joker, his head tilted, lets a manic grin blossom across a face of melting grease paint, and smacks Ianto lightly on the arm. "I like you for some reason."

Ianto doesn't respond, but the temperature of his cheeks is suddenly a stark contrast to the rest of his icy skin. Further ahead, one of the crew, a middle-aged Japanese woman in baggy clothing, pokes and prods at the two cars curiously.

"You want to call a cab or walk?" the Joker asks, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and tilting his head toward the sky.

There's squealing of tires, and a familiar black tank of an automobile rips around the corner of one of the side streets, barreling toward the Joker and the rest of the crew with frightening speed. Ianto's gun rests warm in his palm, and he raises an eyebrow as the car brakes and the smell of burning rubber assaults his nostrils. It comes to a standstill, inches away from the wreck.

"It would appear someone has already called one for you, sir."

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**

* * *

**

**Title**:** Laughing At Shadows (4/?)**

**Author**: Silverkitsune1

**Summary**: Ianto acts as butler for Gotham's mad clown.

**Rating**: PG-13

**Disclaimer**: I own neither Torchwood or Batman.

**Warnings**: Ianto/Joker. Crossover with Dark Knight. Spoilers for movie, and through first two seasons of Torchwood. Eventual Ianto/Jack.

**Author's** **Note**: Thank you to lj users Madtheo and samcandoit for their wonderful betas.

**Chapter 4**

The handkerchief tucked away in Ianto's breast pocket is as sopping wet as the rest of him, but staring down the Batman's tank of a vehicle as it sits quiet and unmoving in front of them has Ianto using the bit of cotton to mop his brow nevertheless. There's sweat mixed in with the rainwater, and poisons in Gotham tend to be found in even the most trusted of things, so he doesn't see it as an act of frivolity.

The Japanese woman, her arms outstretched with her large sleeves billowing behind her like sails, tentatively approaches the car first. She runs her hands down the side, and then slams her small fist against the metal hard enough to make her bones creak.

"The angel walks," she cries, eyes downcast as her voice rises.

Ianto feels a twinge of discomfort at the dramatics, and is happy when their former maniac of a driver advances with a weapon in her hand. Shoving the smaller woman to the side, she pushes thick, wet hair out of her eyes and opens fire on the windshield.

"I love it when they're sassy," Joker says, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

The bullets find their mark, and the wind rises almost drowning out the _pop pop pop_ as the metal slugs spark and ricochet off the steel sides. The hatch stays closed, and when the familiar cape and cowl fail to emerge Ianto takes a step closer to the Joker.

"Shall I investigate further, sir?"

The Joker's eyes narrow at the sight ahead of him, and then his hand snakes out to grab Ianto by the shoulder. Spinning them both, he throws the Welshman to the ground, firing into the rain. The longhaired woman joins the fray, and the Japanese woman hits the ground.

Ianto's palms scrape across pavement, marking the road with bits of his skin and blood. His head tips up, and as he inspects the sky, drops of rain slide past his lips and into his parted mouth. A figure moves between the high rises that block their little gang in, a patch of night that looks to have untangled itself from the large, ever reaching black sky above. It speeds through the city, shuffling from left to right like shuttle on a loom, dodging the Joker's wild shots with grace and intense speed. Ianto blinks, and the shadow is gone, as though the night had opened its jaws and gulped it down.

"Where did you go?" the Joker mutters darkly, his eyes darting from rooftop to rooftop.

There should be a rumble of thunder or a brilliant flash of white lightening to announce his presence on these dark streets, but there is nothing so spectacular. Instead the Bat drops into their midst as if falling out of the ether.

_The flotsam and jetsam of the universe that washes upon our shores _Ianto thinks.

Gotham's dark angel draws first blood, his foot connecting solidly with the torso of the mad woman. He darts forward as she falls, grasping her wrist and squeezing her fingers until they open enough for him to remove the gun as they both tumble forward. The woman's head meets the pavement with a crack, but the Batman is moving, already across the clearing aiming to incapacitate the clown.

The Joker doesn't take aim, rather he wraps each bullet in an insult before firing at the Batman, and Ianto isn't sure if he actually means to hit the other man, (if that is what the Bat is under his mask) or if he's just baiting him.

Ianto brings his weapon up, and fires three shots. Each is brushed aside, nothing more than flies to Gotham's knight, but the Bat makes a detour and Ianto's actions earn him a punch to the nose, the likes of which causes planets and solar systems to spin in front of the young Welshman's eyes. The toe of a leather boot hooks under his knee and Ianto's feet are yanked out from under him. He falls, hitting the wet street with a thump, the wind knocked clear out of his body.

From his spot on the ground, the rain blinding his vision, Ianto sees the hazy image of the Joker as he races away from him, disappearing down an alleyway with the Batman on his tail. The sight of the retreating back is crushing, but, Ianto is surprised to notice, not unexpected.

The glass of the squad car window is cool against Ianto's cheek, and streaked with the pattering rain. Ianto's face is bathed in colors of red, then blue, then red again as the police lights twirl and flare. An officer finishes bundling the women into an adjacent squad car, they'll be on their way back to Arkham Asylum where there's wire mesh across the windows and names written neatly in white chalk across small squares of blackboard. Not that he's ever seen the inside of Arkham.

Ianto shivers, and wishes he and the girls could trade places. The women have cuffs around their wrists, the same as him, but an ambulance worker had tossed blankets around the both of them before they were shoved into the backseat of the cruiser.

There is a dull thud, and Ianto peers through the rain to see the Japanese woman kick at the back window with her bright yellow trainers as they pull away. Ianto wonders if he'll ever see them again, if the cold will ever seep out of his bones or if the Joker will remember to press his suits before he wears them.

The drive to the station house is short. He's fingerprinted and photographed, and then a smooth faced police officer with a name badge that reads 'Anthony' takes his belongings. They remove his green silk tie, along with his belt, before moving on to check his shoes and pick his pockets. They discover the painting he's been carrying of course, and it's only a little damp from being tucked under Ianto's soaked clothing. Three tubes of grease paint in various colors, a matchbook, and a stopwatch are all they find other than the stolen art, and they're neatly bagged, labeled and stored away.

"Looks like we found his make-up artist," a fat officer in plain clothes mutters.

The officers watch him with heavy gazes, and a gauntlet of emotions flicker across their faces as Ianto is shuffled from one room to the next. Hatred, curiosity, disgust and terror rank down Ianto's back, and he ducks his head to avoid the relentless battering of their eyes.

The station is small, and it appears to have had a busy night. The center cell is already full of drunks and bored looking men, and Ianto is surprised when he's led past the cage and further into the bowels of the station house.

"Put him in the back," orders a tall black woman with hard grey eyes. "I want all the crazies in one place for when the big shots get here tomorrow."

The footsteps of the officers echo off the stone walls, slipping through the bars of the cells and bouncing into Ianto's ears as he's led further into the station house. He hears the woman before he sees her.

"Hey! Hey, you then! For the last time, tell us why we're being held or let us go!"

The accent that decorates the voice strikes a familiar cord in Ianto, and he turns to face the opposite cell as the officer closes his door with a rattle and a slam.

"Oi! I'm talking to you!"

Ianto wraps his hands around the bars, and pushes his face between them. He's unknowingly mirrored his angry neighbor's position, and he stares at her small hands as she shouts. For some reason he can picture these hands covered in blood.

"You're both sorry excuses for law enforcemen, I can tell you that," she spits at the two.

The guards pay her no mind.

There are bags under the woman's eyes, and the long black hair that runs down her back is greasy and unkempt. The toes of her boots are covered in mud, and when she looks up Ianto feels a wave of familiarity wash though him.

"Ianto?"

Her eyes find his, and to Ianto's surprise, a name stumbles off his tongue.

"Gwen Cooper?"

"Ah, God!" Her eyes are huge, and one of her hands falls away, her grip gone. Ianto wonders if she'll try to reach across the way to touch him. "We've been looking-this city is so damn-it's not important. Ianto, we've been so worried. Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

Ianto doesn't respond and her mouth tightens as she takes in his broken nose and scraped hands.

"Did they do that?" she asks.

There's distant thunder underlying the calm of her words, lightening flashing in the irises of her large eyes.

Ianto shakes his head. "No."

Ianto relinquishes his grip on the bars to take in the width and breathe of his cell. The woman with the familiar name calls for him again, but Ianto's body is tired and his heart aches with a heaviness that he wants to escape. He considers curling up on the floor and sleeping, but he doubts the cold would allow him much in the way of rest.

"Ianto, sweetheart?" Gwen calls.

There's no window in his cell. The chill that occasionally rushes across him, coaxing goose pimples up from his arms, must be coming from Gwen's. It's fitting since her name had skirted across his memory like a small touch of air, but unfortunately, much like with so many other things these past few weeks (or had he been like this all his life?), no other information had surfaced.

Ianto folds his hands behind his back.

"Look at me," the Welshwoman pleads. "Look at me, please."

In the end, Ianto decides on the bench nailed into the side of the wall, its edges decorated with names and dirty pictures. He settles himself on the stretch of pockmarked wood with a sigh, his head pressing against the cool stone wall. In his mind's eye fire blossoms and glows, almost real enough to chase away the aching cold, and in the shadows waits the Joker who watches him with dancing black eyes.


End file.
